


Well Well Wells

by felofHe



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: Evil H.G., Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 09:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9174145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felofHe/pseuds/felofHe
Summary: H.G. Wells has evaded all suspicion to slay many authors at the dinner party that night. But now the real tests begin.





	1. Introduction: Well

**Author's Note:**

> This A.U. was inspired by the great Poe Party fandom and that Shipwrecked themselves even said Blake Silver (H.G.) would be the murderer if Poe Party were to happen with the actors. Hopefully you enjoy. (None of the ramblings of Dark H.G. reflect my opinions, by the way. Just trying to make hims sound crazy as possible.)

He did say he knew who did it. 

Oh, yes. H.G Wells had fooled them all. The skittish little nerd trick was working perfectly. No one had suspected him save a few snide remarks at his writing. (Oh, Hemingway would pay for that.) It was going so well that he knew in the future the younglings on the InTernet would refer to him as a “smol bean”. Granted he had no clue why that was a good thing, beans being such flatulence-causing little pests as they were. However, he could sense there was affection in it and it made him feel all the better about it. How sweet it would feel when their hearts shattered. The thought made him feel elated.

Of course, the whole point of the evening was to get revenge on Poe, all the other authors, and that miserable banker for laughing at him. They knew nothing of science and the extensions of the mind. Shelley was the worst. Perverting the blessed subject with delusions of reanimation and life from death. Oh, he had proven her sorely wrong this night. His Bombarding Box had served its purpose fantastically. The banker went first, obviously. He denied Wells his funds for the grand Time Machine that would make them laugh no more. But no matter, he had other means. Alcott, with her silly existential crises and the all-natural wishwash. Oh, Wells was fine with nature, but it got rather annoying having it shoved down ones throat all day. Dostoevsky of course required help from Charlotte Bronte and her sister, but he had plans for them in the future. The big Russian was well-known for his musings on Christianity and H.G. could not tolerate it. Science is the religion of the land. Christie would of course figure everything out. Unfortunate, since she was one of the more sensible people that evening. Oh, Wells. Eliot. Oh, Eliot. Poor thing. She was a sweetheart, but she happened to be a victim of wrong place at the wrong time. Doubly so for her death. But no matter. The real performance was about to start.

It was time to convince the Ghost Lady once and for all.


	2. Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil H.G. takes on the task of convincing Lenore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we get to the real meat of the action. Hope you guys enjoy. :)

His interactions with the Ghost Lady were admittedly not unpleasant, but the fact that she did seem to be a genuine ghost of witchcraftian origin was annoying. Probably something to do with the candles the psychic was burning. No matter. He had a plan. 

But for now, however, he had to do something dangerous, but also exciting. His Cahmera was an exciting premise, but of course it was not doing the purpose he had described to the Ghost Lady this night. It was in fact a bomb. And she was helping him rig it. Now, Wells could not help but feel a bit excited by the idea of the Cahmera and the Tordongulator’s synthesis in motion. I mean, what sensible person of science wouldn’t be excited by the idea of seeing something from far away activated by its motion. And admittedly, Lenore’s little thing about filters (“She must have some sort of time travel in her, must investigate further.” he noted.) had been rather cute. But the time had come to plant the bomb and despite her baffling abilities, they did come in useful for planting something on a roof without arousing suspicion.  
Now came the dangerously exciting part. It was simple, really. A small wood fire on a thick iron tray and a good bit of dry ice and water smuggled in earlier by Miss Anne Bronte and he had the perfect formula for a deceptive amount of smoke. He trusted that the Ghost Lady would not fully perceive the cold of the fog nor the weakness of the smell and let both go. He coughed and wheezed right as she returned on cue. 

It was strange. As he pretended to die, her touch on his forehead felt very real. And she sounded genuinely concerned for him. But the fact that she asked his real name was rather bothersome. One more secret he had to keep on the grounds of this house. But still, that touch was rather lovely. No. He locked those thoughts in his head. Now is not the time for sentiment.

As she dragged his body through the house, unexpectedly but helpfully grabbing the Tordongulator, Wells had to hope that his companions were doing their jobs properly. He had heard shuffling about downstairs and unfamiliar voices, which could only meant the police had arrived. With luck, one of the Brontes had taken care of them. The sound of wine glasses clinking encouraged him, for he knew of Anne’s fondness for poisoning it. 

As Lenore’s panicked calls for help travelled and reached his ears, he had to resist laughing at Poe’s fumbles to try and explain the situation. As much as he despised Poe’s obsession with the occult, he had to admit it was fun to watch the man make an utter fool of himself. Wells decided as that little scene was going on to take advantage of the steepness of the staircase and Lenore having let go of his collar to slide down the rest of the stairs, in an attempt to get more reactions from the scene, but alas. It was probably for the best. Thankfully, the Brontes had apparently been quick on the ball, because the two police officers keeled over as soon as Wells hit the bottom. Again, he had to suppress a smile. It was difficult. 

Even more difficult was resisting the urge to climb up the stairs after being unceremoniously dragged into the basement and listen to the growing bickering between the remaining authors. But he knew he must sneak out and take care of other matters. Oh, how clever it had been to make it all look like the banker’s doing, at least to Annabel Lee. Not the brightest girl in the world. But then again, none of the other people this night were either. Squeezing the life out of her was not pleasant. Death had an odd way to him. It disgusted him to kill personally, but it was satisfying to know you would never be troubled again. Thankfully, Poe had not been looking at his face when he ran to the bridge after Annabel. And less so that Wells disgust with his task had left him unable to fully finish it. But the moment the two had together was quite sweet. He did almost regret killing her then. And thankfully, she had not told Poe who did it. He crept up the treeline back to the house. 

He had more work yet to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we'll start to deviate from Poe Party proper. Bear with me, please. I think you'll enjoy it.


	3. Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot changes as Evil H.G. continues his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Fairly graphic depictions of violence here. Read with caution.

First things first. Miss Anne Bronte had been most helpful tonight, but it was better to get rid of her before anyone but her sister would know she was gone. Less messy and Wells hated messes.

“Oh, good. You’re here” said she as he came in through the kitchen door. “Time to make our move?”

“Yes. Are preparations in place?” he implored. 

“Yes, they are.” she raised her knife and grinned excitedly.

“Is that how murderers look?” H.G. wondered internally. “Because it’s not a good look. Must work on that.”

Without changing expression, he grabbed her knife hand and carefully ducked down as he jammed the knife into her throat. He stared at her knees as he felt the life slowly leave her. He heard commotion in the dining room. He knew he had to act quickly. He gently pushed the knife so Bronte’s body would fall away from him and hurriedly washed his hands in the sink, dashed into the dumbwaiter and went down. A scream upstairs as it came to a halt informed him that his work was discovered, and not a moment too soon.

As he emerged from the basement, knowing full well the others would be frittering about in the kitchen, he found what he expected in the dining room. A passed out Hemingway. Finally succumbed to the sleeping pills Wells had surreptitiously dropped in his flask in the study. I had taken him long enough, too. The man must have more alcohol than blood in his veins. No matter. Wells pulled the knife Hemingway had in his pocket and, easily due to its sharpness, removed Hemingway’s head. Again he was careful to stand clear of the blood spurts. He then used a napkin to tie one of Hemingway’s arms into a sling position and tucked his head in it. A Farewell to Arms if ever was one. Wells smiled at his little joke. 

He noticed the voices in the kitchen had quieted down. He realized only three living people were left in the house and had possibly decided to leave it. Quickly he jumped to the interior jamb of the dining room and not a minute too soon. Wilde came around the corner, a sobbing Charlotte Bronte on his shoulder and both and screamed. A sullen, even viciously angry Poe came charging past them. Wells was amazed. He must have underestimated Poe’s love for Miss Lee. As Poe examined Hemingway’s corpse and Wilde and Bronte dared to step closer, Wells quickly slipped around the jamb, grabbed the Tordongulator, and crept upstairs. As he reached the top, he heard a familiar voice downstairs. The Ghost Lady. Lenore. He had forgotten about her. She sounded sad and angry.

“H.G. Wells’ body is missing from the basement.”

Well, Wells thought, time to kick this horse into motion. He moved swiftly but silently into the attic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this departure from Poe Party's plot. Thanks for the warm reception so far. :)


	4. Wells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil H.G. has been found out. Now it's a race to see what happens next.

Wells crept to the attic door and put his back to it, listening for the Ghost Lady. It was, after all, her domain most days. He listened intently and it served him well, for he heard crawling around inside and sniffles. He hesitated, but then crept away. Looking down the staircase into the lower hall, he saw that Wilde and Poe had left the dining room to destinations unknown, leaving a sniffling Bronte crying into her handkerchief. Hemingway’s body had been covered with the tablecloth. 

Fools, Wells thought as he crept up behind her, never leave anyone alone. 

As he raised the Tordongulator, intending to smash it down upon her head, she suddenly whipped up, her gun in hand. Wells let out a small “Eek!” much to his embarrassment.

“You.” Bronte growled, hurt and loathing in her voice. “You killed my sister. Did you really think I’d be sitting here like a baby after what I’ve already done tonight?”

Scrambling, Wells decided to act again. He clutched the Tordongulator to his chest and sank to his knees.

“What? No, no. I-I just woke up from the cellar. I passed out from the smoke upstairs. What’s going on?”

Bronte laughed coldly. “Cut the act, Wells. I was in on your little scheme, remember? Your little neo-Macbeth act isn’t going to make you king any time soon. I’m going to make sure you pay. Hard. And I’m sure I won’t be the only one. Wait til Poe gets back.” She smirked and pushed the gun towards him. Fatal mistake. He grabbed the gun and whipped it around, not even giving her a moment to change expression before he shot her.

Quickly he got up and grabbed a candle and hid behind the jamb again. Wilde arrived first. The man was quite hilarious, Wells would give him that. But there is no way to stop the consequences of time, least of all vanity. Wells thrust the candle into his hair and the treatments for it ensured Wilde’s final moments both obliterated that vanity and ensured a rather swift death. Stepping into the hall, Wells faced his last living opponent, whom he knew would be there: Poe.

“Well, well, Wells.” Poe said. 

Wells himself had to suppress a laugh, for it was too perfect.

“Poe.” he retorted instead, flashing him a toothy smile.

“You killed the love of my life.” Poe held up the knife he’d grabbed from the kitchen. “You will be entombed in a swamp where you belong.”

“I think not, Poe. You may have invented detective fiction, but you’re no match for me. I doubt you could so much as scratch me with that knife.” Wells smiled that wry smile of his.

Poe lunged, but Wells ducked past him easily and Poe overshot, stumbling. Wells raised the Tordungulator and let it fall on Poe’s head as he tried to recover. The mustachioed man fell.

Wells smiled. He had done it. Then he felt a sharp point press against his neck. A broken wine glass neck. Holding it:

“Lenore.” Wells said, genuinely nervous. “Hello.”

“Why?” she asked. Her tears were gone. The word came out in pure rage, low and showing no signs whatsoever that she would have reservations about driving the broken glass into his neck. 

“Because they laughed at me.” He answered candidly. No nerdy charm would save him now. “They cast me out. They mocked science. That which makes us all tick. They called my writing dull and hackish. They called me unimportant. No. I proved them wrong tonight.”

Glancing left, he caught a look at Lenore’s face. Her eyes were red. Tear streaks down her cheeks were drying, though he thought he could see one last one fall. Perhaps he had gotten to her after all.

“To think I almost cared about a monster.” she managed. It was enough. Wells jerked his head away from her shard on the last word and spun away, pulling up the Tordongulator and grabbing the dial. 

“Oh, but you did, Lenore. Ah ah ah!” he turned it slightly as she took hasty steps towards him. “The Cahmera you so helpfully set on the roof earlier was in fact a bomb and the Tordongulator is set to blow it if I turn this dial far enough. And if your haunting house explodes, you vanish forever. No time to make a second contract. Let me leave and I’ll let you continue ghosting.” He grinned.

It didn’t last long. Lenore charged and drove the shard into his neck. Wells was so shocked he dropped the Tordongulator and it shattered. Its components flew everywhere.  
“I’d much rather leave this stinking world behind if there’s no one left that I love in it. You took them away from me. So now, I'm taking the world away from you. Good bye, H.G. Wells.” The last thing Wells saw was her expression slacken as his consciousness faded. She turned incorporeal and let him fall through her, then took a moment to stomp on his head after he hit the ground. 

She floated into the dining room, searching for a bottle of wine, the bodies still all around her. She tilted the bottle down her throat and the tears came out all over again. 

 

They would never stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this and being so invested. It means a lot. I know you're probably crying right now. I'm sorry. I hope you don't hate me.


End file.
